With Edged Tools | Page 2

display at times. The zest was that of remembrance; the
sword-play of words was above the head of a younger generation given
to slang and music-hall airs; and so these two had little bouts for their
own edification, and enjoyed the glitter of it vastly.

Sir John's face relaxed into the only repose he ever allowed it; for he
had a habit of twitching and moving his lips such as some old men have.
And occasionally, in an access of further senility, he fumbled with his
fingers at his mouth. He was clean shaven, and even in his old age he
was handsome beyond other men--standing an upright six feet two.
The object of his attention was the belle of that ball, Miss Millicent
Chyne, who was hemmed into a corner by a group of eager dancers
anxious to insert their names in some corner of her card. She was the
fashion at that time. And she probably did not know that at least half of
the men crowded round because the other half were there. Nothing
succeeds like the success that knows how to draw a crowd.
She received the ovation self-possessedly enough, but without that
hauteur affected by belles of balls--in books. She seemed to have a
fresh smile for each new applicant--a smile which conveyed to each in
turn the fact that she had been attempting all along to get her
programme safely into his hands. A halting masculine pen will not be
expected to explain how she compassed this, beyond a gentle
intimation that masculine vanity had a good deal to do with her
success.
"She is having an excellent time," said Sir John, weighing on the
modern phrase with a subtle sarcasm. He was addicted to the use of
modern phraseology, spiced with a cynicism of his own.
"Yes, I cannot help sympathising with her--a little," answered the lady.
"Nor I. It will not last."
"Well, she is only gathering the rosebuds."
"Wisely so, your ladyship. They at least LOOK as if they were going to
last. The full-blown roses do not."
Lady Cantourne gave a little sigh. This was the difference between
them. She could not watch without an occasional thought for a time
that was no more. The man seemed to be content that the past had been

lived through and would never renew itself.
"After all," she said, "she is my sister's child. The sympathy may only
be a matter of blood. Perhaps I was like that myself once. Was I? You
can tell me."
She looked slowly round the room and his face hardened. He knew that
she was reflecting that there was no one else who could tell her; and he
did not like it.
"No," he answered readily.
"And what was the difference?"
She looked straight in front of her with a strange old-fashioned
demureness.
"Their name is legion, for they are many."
"Name a few. Was I as good-looking as that, for instance?"
He smiled--a wise, old, woman-searching smile.
"You were better-looking than that," he said, with a glance beneath his
lashless lids. "Moreover, there was more of the grand lady about you.
You behaved better. There was less shaking hands with your partners,
less nodding and becking, and none of that modern forwardness which
is called, I believe, camaraderie."
"Thank you, Sir John," she answered, looking at him frankly with a
pleasant smile. "But it is probable that we had the faults of our age."
He fumbled at his lips, having reasons of his own for disliking too close
a scrutiny of his face.
"That is more than probable," he answered, rather indistinctly.
"Then," she said, tapping the back of his gloved hand with her fan, "we
ought to be merciful to the faults of a succeeding generation. Tell me

who is that young man with the long stride who is getting himself
introduced now."
"That," answered Sir John, who prided himself upon knowing every
one--knowing who they were and who they were not--"is young
Oscard."
"Son of the eccentric Oscard?"
"Son of the eccentric Oscard."
"And where did he get that brown face?"
"He got that in Africa, where he has been shooting. He forms part of
some one else's bag at the present moment."
"What do you mean?"
"He has been apportioned a dance. Your fair niece has bagged him."
If he had only known it, Guy Oscard won the privilege of a waltz by
the same brown face which Lady Cantourne had so promptly noted.
Coupled with a sturdy uprightness of carriage, this raised him at a
bound above the pallid habitues of ballroom and pavement. It was,
perhaps, only natural that Millicent Chyne should have noted this man
as soon as he crossed the threshold. He was as remarkable as some free
and dignified denizen of